


Well, You're a Hot Mess (And I'm Falling For You)

by PeopleCoveredInFish



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, Alternate Universe - Grocery Store, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, hanamiya makoto doesn't understand eggs, kiyoshi teppei is never gonna give you up never gonna let you down
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleCoveredInFish/pseuds/PeopleCoveredInFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a diner to raise Hanamiya Makoto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> warning: brief references to drug and alcohol abuse

The thing is, he does need to eat. It’s a thought nestled uncomfortably in the lining of his stomach and, as he’s beginning to find out, putting it off doesn’t make it go away. Hanamiya flops onto his right side, drags a hand down the upholstered planes and curves of Imayoshi’s sofa, picking at errant threads, and considers knocking himself out for the next five afternoons.  He points his toes, feet brushing against an overly plump cushion, and stretches out, the lines of his body drawn taut against his own apathy. The room, a longstanding venue for Imayoshi’s frequent parties, seems bigger when no one else is around. It’s the positioning of the gilded frame on the far wall that pulls a bark of laughter from the center of his chest, twined around the memory of the wine bottle shattering as it made impact. He hoists himself up from Imayoshi’s couch with an indulgent groan—the bastard’s only letting him stay for two weeks before he starts paying rent, fourteen fucking _days_ , and he won’t even share food—and slips into his shoes, setting out in search of the nearest grocery store.

It’s the first time he’s been out before sunset in recent memory; he’s neither drunk nor high nor is he attempting to obtain access to either state. He’s alone. The streets look different in the daylight, bland and bright. Honest. He scowls and aims a kick at a concrete crumb poking out of a small fissure in the sidewalk, letting it arc about a meter into the air before shuddering to a stop against the curve of a trash bin. It’s cold today; his shoulders tense beneath his hoodie and he thinks with no small degree of bitterness about his parents and their small staff of kitchen attendants. Not to say he regrets totaling his father’s car, cocaine and vodka singing through his system and a hot piece in the passenger seat—only that he wasn’t expecting to be left to fend for himself as a result. It appears that his mother’s influence only extends so far.

Two blocks away from the apartment, he walks into a mid-sized supermarket, brightly lit and tiled with linoleum, walls patterned with friendly directives on this week’s collard green discounts. Hanamiya stares menacingly at the produce section. The cabbages appear to be wet. He takes a closer look and notices the mist—it’s _raining_.  He beats a swift retreat to the dairy aisle.

You can live off of eggs, right? Hanamiya grabs two cartons in each hand before noticing that other shoppers are pushing what appear to be plastic open-topped cages on wheels. He’s about to turn and attempt to locate one himself when a voice to his right asks, “How do you like your eggs?”

Blinking at the unwanted intrusion into his consciousness, he moves his head towards the speaker, an abysmally huge guy with a smile that sports all the marks of permanent residence. “Cooked,” he says.

The man laughs—really laughs, Hanamiya can count his teeth—and hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his apron. He’s built, cords of muscle roping his arms, and Hanamiya might be impressed, or hell, even interested, if he weren’t so annoyed. Aren’t employees supposed to keep to themselves? Hanamiya composes a minor sneer and stalks off in the direction of the people whose job it is to take his money. He has, like, forty-eight eggs; that has to be good for at least a week. “Are you all set? I can ring you up.”

Cheery Tall Guy is suddenly flanking him on the left, and he treats Hanamiya once again to the droopy joy of his grin. It’s _disgusting_. Now that he’s acquired a guard, they move over the floor together as though in a dance, past the aisles representative of various food kingdoms, stepping with care around the unfortunate-looking orange liquid currently oozing its way down aisle four. Hanamiya slams the eggs down onto the register counter. “Be careful,” warns his self-appointed cashier, “they might—”

“Whatever,” snaps Hanamiya. They’re eggs, it’s not like they’re fragile. To his credit, the guy doesn’t even flinch at his outburst. If anything, his smile _widens_. “You bake?”

What the _fuck_. “No,” he mutters, shoving a crumpled handful of thousand yen bills still bearing the folds of his pocket in the guy’s direction.

“Ehh?” His cashier is showing the first signs of what always comes up sooner or later when Hanamiya’s involved—confusion and mild alarm. “But...what else can you do with that many eggs?”

Hanamiya grips the edges of the counter and leans in, voice hoarse with frustration, “I’m going to eat them. I’m going to eat these eggs.”

He flinches as the man laughs again, handing him the receipt to sign with what appears to be genuine pleasure. Their fingers brush, and the cashier’s rest on his for a moment, soft and large and incomprehensible in their kindness, and really, they’re stupidly big. Hanamiya feels his face prickle in annoyance.

His terrible mood holds like a cloudbank through the rest of the day, and he doesn’t think about the grocery store employee at all, not even when he stands over the half-filled garbage pail in Imayoshi’s kitchen, watching the glass-and-yellow insides of twenty-three broken eggs slip into happy togetherness at the bottom.


	2. Chapter 2

What happens is this: Hanamiya Makoto, abandoned both by his parents and his former senpai to the trials of daily domesticity, tasks the microwave with radiating three raw eggs on high for six minutes.

By all accounts, Imayoshi Shouichi is a bastard, if—to Hanamiya’s distaste—a forgiving one, and it’s thanks to him that Hanamiya is currently wrist-deep in soapy water, soaking dishrags in preparation for scrubbing tables at The Red and Black. Imayoshi calls this good, honest work, and tells him it’s punishment enough.

Less than an hour of this and he thinks he might rather go to prison. Imayoshi is sitting at the far end of the room, focused on a corner television that’s broadcasting the races while waiters and busboys bustle around, preparing for the morning rush.

Imayoshi’s diner is a squat little establishment sandwiched between a chain pharmacy and the back end of the docks by the river; short on fame but poised to make a break for it one of these days. Atmospherically, it’s nothing special—while its sheer newness might lend it some panache, it lacks the steady antique comfort that a more established place could provide. But then, it’s not exactly going for mother of the year. The Red and Black is rising on account of its American/Japanese fusion cuisine, specializing in updated classics and reworked old favorites. And Imayoshi has recruited some of the best chefs nationwide, including recognized prodigy Aomine Daiki.

Who is currently late. Again.

Hanamiya doesn’t care about any of this, of course, but an irritable Imayoshi is an entertaining Imayoshi—at least, when the target of his ire is someone other than Hanamiya. He’s known the guy long enough to recognize the subtleties of his mood, the faintly menacing, undulating presence that’s carefully tapered into smooth lines and deflections. When faced with some irritant, Imayoshi only becomes more sinuously affable.

“Wakamatsu,” he says now, looking away from the television as though the thought had just struck him, “have you seen or heard from our friend Aomine-kun today?”

There’s a dim growl from the kitchen, and Imayoshi’s head waiter emerges, letting the door shut heavily behind him. “Boss, if you’d only let me rough him up a little this wouldn’t keep happening.”

Imayoshi’s smile is vein-thin and mild as the rice they stock in the kitchen cabinets. “He’s a growing boy,” he says, “I’m quite sure he’ll come around. Call Sakurai-kun, tell him to prepare for a double, if need be.”

Wakamatsu opens his mouth as if to protest, then nods resolutely, eyes flicking back to the kitchen before Imayoshi dismisses him with a wave.

Hanamiya has finished his table-scrubbing drudgery, but he’s all too aware of the dangers of approaching Imayoshi at a moment like this.  He sidles into the kitchen, thinking that he can avoid everyone and maybe check his messages, and has just settled on top of a beer barrel when there’s a knock on the outside door and a shout of, “Delivery!”

At that moment, there’s a scuffle on the other side of the kitchen over a burning pot. No one seems to have heard the cry, so Hanamiya begrudgingly gets up and hauls the door open himself.

Whoever it is, they’re completely obscured by a tower of cabbages. Hanamiya snorts. There’s a fork on the floor, it’d take simple footwork to slide it into their path—he can picture it, so easy, so sweet, but he’s already in Imayoshi’s debt and he doesn’t have anywhere else to stay. Half-sulking, he holds the door open and the person steps into the kitchen without hindrance.

When he sees who it is, he wishes he’d shoved an entire drawer of cutlery at those grotesquely large feet.

“It’s the egg-man!”

He’s bigger than Hanamiya remembers, and about eighty percent muscle, topped off by that same idiot grin. “Call me that again,” he says, arms crossed, “and I’ll break your legs.”

The man turns to put the cabbages on the long table next to one of the stoves. He’s still smiling. “Sorry, sorry! What should I call you?”

Hanamiya clenches his fist and reminds himself to think twice the next time he’s in danger of needing Imayoshi’s good graces. “Hanamiya is fine.”

“Nice to meet you, Hana-chan. I’m Kiyoshi Teppei.”

And not even the threat of an angry Imayoshi can stop that punch. 


End file.
